"I'm an artist," Tom said, taking out a cigaret.
"But what else?" Larry asked.
Tom felt an angry embarrassment. "Just an artist," he mumbled, cigaret in mouth, digging in his pockets for a match.
"Hold on," said Joyce beside him and pointed a silver pencil at the tip of the cigaret. He felt a faint thrill in his lips and then started back, coughing. The cigaret was lighted.
"Please mutate my poppy seeds, Mommy." A little girl had darted to Joyce from the children's table.
"You're a very dirty little girl," Joyce told her without reproof. "Hold them out." She briefly directed the silver pencil at the clay pellets on the grimy little palm. The little girl shivered delightedly. "I love ultrasonics, they feel so funny." She scampered off.
Tom cleared his throat. "I must say I'm tremendously impressed with the wood carvings. I'd like to photograph them. Oh, Lord!"
"What's the matter?" Rachel asked.
"I lost my camera somewhere."
"Camera?" Jokichi showed interest. "You mean one for stills?"